


Desert Camouflage

by antigrav_vector



Series: Damning Circumstances [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Steve, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Tony, I can't seem to stop myself, M/M, Mission Fic, bonus points to those who get it cause it's subtle, kinda not really historical fiction, mild whump, more like oblique references to history, yes another one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigrav_vector/pseuds/antigrav_vector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fight scenes, very loosely adapted timelines, Cap, and Tony. What could go wrong? ... Oh, wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert Camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my lovely beta readers: lil_1337, and gravityassist. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

A trail of dust rising in the middle distance grabbed his attention. No one was supposed to be in the area. Steve watched, curious, taking advantage of his cowl's slight visor to shield his eyes from the harsh sunlight. His team was in the hills to the south, waiting for him to return from his scouting run. A long minute later, the dust trail resolved itself into an armoured vehicle that swerved every now and again to avoid something he couldn't see from his vantage point. Oddly, the make was American. What were they doing here[1]?

Only moments later, a low whine rose into audibility followed by the buzz-rattle of automatic machine gun fire, and a well-armed drone helicopter rose into view, drifting lazily up and over the vehicle. It had previously been hidden by the dust cloud, Steve realised. As he watched, it took a pot shot at the armoured car, but from this distance it was unclear whether the shot connected. The driver had clearly been forced to separate from his convoy, Steve reasoned. Just as clearly, they needed help. A short burst of return fire from the vehicle caused the drone to falter in its attack, but not for long. Deciding he didn't have enough time to call in his Commandoes before the action came to a conclusion, Steve set off, half running and half sliding down the dune.

The drone fired again, and this time, it managed to set off a charge hidden in the sandy verge near the road that flipped the car onto its side. It skidded forward about ten yards, wheels continuing to spin.

There wasn't much cover, but Steve used what there was: sparse scrub and low bushes that barely reached his waist if he stood. Somehow he managed to get to within range without being spotted. Likely the drone pilot was focused on the vehicle and its occupants. With a grunt he threw his shield.

It connected, taking out the drone's main rotor and dropping it to the sand with a loud squeal of bending metal and protesting motors, then rebounded. Steve caught it and deftly fitted it back onto his arm. As the drone fell, though, its operator managed to get it to turn toward the car's chassis. It continued to shoot at the incapacitated vehicle, bullets clearly going right through the lighter armour of the car's underside and into the cab. The car was between him and the drone, now, which was less than ideal though it did provide him with some cover. Hiding behind his shield, Steve crept closer, feeling the shift in the drone pilot's attention as he moved into view, peering around the car's rear fender.

The car's occupants shouted at him. Something indistinct over the fire coming from the now grounded drone. Before he could ask for a repeat, a stray bullet from the drone set off an explosion a meter in front of him. If not for his shield, he'd have been in real trouble. They'd ended up in a minefield. Steve winced. As it was, his legs stung, now covered in cuts, bruises, and burns despite the armour in his uniform, and his ears rang.

Getting rid of that drone, preferably from a distance, was now a priority. He ducked behind the car and threw his shield again. This time, a loud clang sounded when it hit, the vibranium ringing like a struck bell, and the hail of bullets stopped. Catching it when it ricocheted back over his head, Steve dared look over the edge of the car's chassis. The drone wasn't dead, only pointed away from the vehicle and now also on its side. He let himself relax long enough to take a breath and regroup. He'd better check on--

"Get the drone, we have injured," someone shouted at him from the car, breaking into his train of thought. Not what Steve had wanted to hear, but any information was useful, at this point. A moment later, the same voice added, "go for the base of the turret, where it's bolted onto the body."

Steve nodded, and did just that. In under a minute, the gun lay in the desert sand, hot barrels hissing when they made contact with the ground. Dismissing the drone as no longer being any real threat, Steve turned his attention to the crew of the car. Shifting the armoured vehicle would be difficult at best, if it was possible at all, he knew. The chassis had been thoroughly chewed up by the fire from the drone and at least one tire had a bullet hole in it.

Stepping around the car to peer in through the gun turret on the roof, Steve got his first look at the drone's attempted victims. The occupants were a mismatched group. A businessman, clearly unsettled by the turn of events, one combat veteran, who had probably been the one to shout directions to him, and two green young NCOs. The veteran was just finishing tying off the bandage around the businessman's leg, as Steve leaned into the small space. A quick glance at all of them revealed that the businessman and one of the NCOs were wounded, and both wounds were of middling seriousness. But they both needed medical attention beyond the first aid the unhurt soldiers had managed to give. The NCO, whose name was apparently Parker, Steve noted, had taken a bullet to his upper right arm. It had been hurriedly bandaged, but the patch job looked to be holding. He might need a sling for that, if Steve was any judge. Parker seemed to be maintaining his composure admirably, though, despite the injury.

On the other hand, the businessman looked pale and pained, gripping the meat of his right thigh to distract himself from the hole in his left, his knuckles white. He was still bleeding worryingly quickly, despite the makeshift tourniquet and bandages. Steve mentally revised his estimation of the wound's severity upward. This was clearly more urgent than he'd thought. He might not care much for businessmen and their ilk, put off by their general lack of morals and ethics, but there was no place for that kind of thinking here. This was simply a man, and injured severely.

Slotting his shield onto his back, Steve caught the veteran's eye, only then registering the man's dark skin with mild surprise. A highly-ranked African-American officer was a rarity, even now; most never got promoted past Captain for idiotic political reasons. Putting the thought aside, he addressed the veteran officer, identified as one Lt. Col. Rhodes by his name tag and insignia. "Sir. Shifting the car is first priority, so we can get the wounded out. My team is hidden in the hills to the south."

"Even if you can get it back on its wheels, there's no way it's starting," the businessman pointed out. Steve chose not to question how he knew that. "We'd be on foot," he continued, gasping as he jarred his leg, trying to move it without thinking, "and that's likely to get us killed. There are more things to worry about than the drone. Such as who was operating it."

Being on foot in the desert with wounded, surrounded by enemies, would get them nowhere fast, Steve knew. Giving in to the necessity, he straightened his shoulders, fighting his instinct to take charge. He was outranked. "What do you have in supplies? And where is the rest of your convoy?" 

"Probably getting shot at, and none. Other than the first aid kit we just gutted. Well, and the fire extinguisher, but that won't be much use. Some small calibre weapons." Rhodes replied, his tone somewhere between relieved, resigned, and pained. 

The businessman tried to stand, obviously wanting to get out of the vehicle, and made it to one knee before his injured leg gave out under him. Rhodes caught him by one shoulder, keeping him on one knee and making sure he stayed there. "Easy, man, easy."

"Let me at that roof mounted gun. I can have it loose in under five minutes. Captain Muscles, there, can probably hold onto it long enough to use it."

Rhodes pinched the bridge of his nose. "We may not have five minutes, and you need a medic."

"We also need something more substantial than an M16 or three to defend ourselves, even if they are Stark manufacture."

"I hate to say it," Steve interjected, "but he's right, sir." Both men turned to stare at him. One in surprise, the other with a thoughtful expression. Steve took the two steps over to the businessman in the small narrow space and gave him a once over as he approached. The man was pale, but steady, if still bleeding. "Hold still," he ordered, dropping to one knee and gently but firmly set his hand on the makeshift tourniquet. The stranger tensed under his hand, but didn't move. Rhodes startled and Steve saw the officer start to reach out to stop him before checking the movement. He was surprisingly protective of this businessman, Steve mused to himself.

After a long moment where nothing happened, Steve checked the hastily applied field dressing, adjusting it and tying the bandages tighter, finally forcing that sluggish bleed to stop. settling back on his haunches, he looked up at Rhodes. "I think that might hold if the tourniquet has to come off," Steve added as he stood. "Now, I'd say introductions are in order. Captain Steve Rogers, Army, Spec Ops."

That got him a few raised eyebrows and surprised looks. After a moment that seemed to stretch, Rhodes nodded. "You've read my tag, so you know my name. Those are Jameson Jr., Parker, and Tony Stark."

"Fine, good, social crap done with, now. Gun," Stark snapped, tone sharp.

Rhodes gave Steve a wry look, then hooked one arm under both of Stark's lifting him to his feet, hunched over in concession to the vehicle's position on its side and supporting him until he was steady. "You let us do the heavy lifting, you hear me, Tones?"

Ah. Either old friends or... well, never mind. Given the hostile political climate, lovers was probably out of the question. But the ease between the two of them was clear. And intriguing. A more unlikely pair of friends, Steve could barely have imagined. Well, possibly excepting himself and Bucky. How they hadn't killed one another over the years they'd known each other...

Steve watched as the officer helped Stark out of the vehicle. He was quickly followed by the two NCOs. Once everyone was out, Stark set to work dismantling the machine gun turret that had been mounted on the top of their vehicle. "Hey, Rogers," he gritted out, strain clear in his voice, "how much can you lift?"

"How much do you need?" Steve tried not to be offended that the man simply ignored his rank.

"About 80 pounds of gun and the same in ammo," was the curt response, somewhere between disbelief and disdain.

"Shouldn't be a problem." Steve had to remind himself not to be offended; he could bench much more than that without a problem. It only halfway worked. Rhodes gave him an apologetic look clearly intended to be on his friend's behalf.

"Good. Careful. She'll kick like hell, and doesn't come with a stock."

Steve was beginning to get the impression that Stark was short tempered at best. Though that could well be the injury talking.

"Come on, Tony," Rhodes put in, tone much calmer than his friend's had been. "Keep it calm and just get that gun into the captain's hands."

"Working on it..." Stark grunted. Then hissed triumphantly, "There!"

A crash sounded as it finally came loose and was allowed to simply fall to the ground, belt-fed ammunition slithering out of its case to pile on top of the weapon. Steve winced for the gun's mechanism, and hoped it hadn't gotten contaminated with sand. Or wouldn't jam on him if it had. Carefully, he lifted it out of the sand, checking it, and tossing the heavy belt of NATO rounds over his shoulder, bandolier style. He'd deal with figuring out a way to fire it reasonably comfortably later. First things first. Bracing it against one hip, he brushed it off, making sure all the parts could move freely.

Stark looked on, his expression wavering between disapproval and vague amusement. "She'll work just fine, Captain, don't worry. I guarantee all my worksmanship personally."

Before Steve could formulate a properly ascerbic reply, a whine of aircraft engines drifted over the low dunes to their south, carried by the light breeze teasing at their faces. They all turned, more or less as one, to see a second drone seem to drift weightlessly over the dune to take aim. The shouts of the others around him didn't truly register. He only peripherally registered the movement as Rhodes pushed Stark behind the remains of their vehicle. The two NCOs dove after them. For his part, Steve took aim, shifting the belt-fed rounds off his shoulder and almost absently using his shield to deflect a short burst of fire from the drone. This was the perfect opportunity to see how the improvised gun handled.

As predicted the gun did kick. Hard. It knocked his aim off of true for a moment until he could compensate. Then the drone dropped, its fuel tanks rupturing when it hit the ground. Its guns were still firing, spitting sparks, and Steve watched in satisfaction as one spark hit the expanding puddle of fuel and it caught, quickly engulfing the drone in flames. It fell silent shortly after, electronics melting and remote controls destroyed.

Steve put up the gun, resting the now warm barrel over his shoulder, as he turned with a smirk to face the stunned group of men watching him from behind cover. "Not bad, Stark. But you're right. She does kick."

They made it back to Steve's rendezvous point -- with only two close calls as other drones scouted the area -- to find his team already there, waiting impatiently. Their surprise on seeing Steve's new acquaintances was only outweighed by the need to get the four men to the nearest base ASAP. Without having to give any orders, Steve watched as they sprang into action, scolding him as they did, arranging for transport to meet them nearby so that they could extract the rescuees quietly. While Falsworth made contact with the base command, Dugan and Jones set to work changing the haphazard and dirt-streaked dressings on Stark and Parker's wounds. The first aid kits they carried were well-stocked by necessity. The Commandoes often found themselves injured and a long way from help.

Rhodes watched the action, bemused, from a few steps behind Steve. Usually, having someone he barely knew behind him made Steve itch, but, oddly, not this time. "You have to do this often," Rhodes eventually asked.

"More often than I'd like, sir." The statement got him a snort. Steve turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Call me Rhodey," was the calm response. Steve thought he saw a hint of a smile in the corners of the officer's eyes.

"If it's all the same, sir--"

"No, it's not. We all owe you our mission's success, such as it is, and possibly our lives into the bargain." Rhodey's tone was firm. 

Giving in, Steve grinned at him. "If you're going to make that an order, sir--" he paused, letting the silence draw out for a moment amused by Rhodey's scowl, before he continued, offering his hand. "You should call me Steve."

Rhodey snorted, taking it, his firm grip making him seem all the more solid and reassuring. The kind of man Steve knew he'd be happy to have at his back. "Smart-ass."

"You know you love it," Stark put in, breaking their moment.

Rhodey rolled his eyes pointedly before turning to face his friend. "I'm sorry, did you say something? I thought I heard a five-year-old whining somewhere off in the distance."

Steve stifled a laugh. Dugan dug in his fingers just enough to draw out a pained yelp as he finished redoing Stark's dressings. That evening, as they watched the helicopter with the four strangers disappear into the distance, Bucky stepped up next to him and quipped, "So, what's the deal with those four? Friends of yours?"

"No," Steve replied, letting the silence build on the heels of the simple denial. _But they might get there, soon enough._

\------------------

[1] [Google Maps link](https://www.google.com/maps/place/29%C2%B011%2756.4%22N+46%C2%B048%2744.8%22E/@29.199007,46.812436,12z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x0:0x0)


End file.
